


Dally

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3064109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s hard to work after John Harrison calls you up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dally

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Barbayat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbayat/gifts).



> A/N: Happy Holidays, Barb! I took your ST Khan/lady and erotic prompts.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There are times when she wishes she’d applied for a starship—she’d make it in easily, of course, with her record and her skills, but then, who would keep an eye on her father? As much as she loves him, there’s just something _not quite right_ in so many of his recent decisions, in so many of his carefully calculated words. Then, when she diverts her terminal to view his records, she finds herself thoroughly blocked out of his deeper inner workings for the first time in her life. On the one hand, it’s disturbing, frustrating and nerve-wracking, trying to track down just what her old man’s up to, but on the other hand, it does keep her normally tedious job from being boring. She could sort outgoing Federation-Earth-Starfleet relations in her sleep. It’s this damn firewall that keeps her staring so intently at her screen that she forgets to get blink. 

She only realizes her eyes sting when her communicator beeps and pulls her away. It’s her personal one—a private channel rather than a work terminal—and she plucks it out of her grey ground uniform’s pocket, flipping it open. A subtle glance at the open end of her cubicle shows no one else around, just the plain, metallic wall she’s used to staring at day in and day out. She keeps her voice low anyway, pleasant, when she chirps, “Hello?”

 _“Hello.”_

Carol grins in spite of herself and turns away from the makeshift door, peripherals still trained there. She recognizes the man on the other end, of course, and she recognizes the deep, sultry tone the word is soaked in. John has a way of dipping everything in honey. A single word can be an enchanting spell. She’s tempted to hang up on him before he gets out anymore—this is important work she’s engrossed in, they’re in the middle of work, where they both work for _her father_ , and she doesn’t have time for the ultimate distraction that is John Harrison. In her hesitation, John continues.

He purrs, in his perfect, hyper-erotic voice, _“I want you, Carol.”_ Just like that. So simple. Carol’s legs, crossed under her desk, slip apart, her knees held together as she fidgets. She tells herself not to think of it, not here, but she can’t _help_ it; why did he bother to call when he should’ve just come down to _take her_. It wouldn’t be the first time he lured her into the washroom, locked the door, threw her up against the wall and pushed her panties down her thighs. They tremble now, as she imagines it, rubbing them together. It’s hard to concentrate on the dry computer problems before her when John’s in her head. 

But she can’t do this, not again, she _just_ let him take her in the supply closet yesterday, on her knees with her dress hiked up and his fists knotted in her hair. She came out a total mess, lipstick smudged and fingermarks all over her throat. And shoulders; she had to button her blouse all the way. At least they couldn’t see the sore redness of her ass. And of course, he looked fine, perfect, utterly untouched as he strolled back to work in his black overcoat and smooth grin. She can’t give in, so she licks her lips and forces out a light, almost flippant, “Well, I want coffee, but we can’t all have everything.” She’s proud of herself for how normal her tone is. Then she hears him take a breath, ready to reply, and she snaps the communicator shut before he can. He can wait until tonight. She’ll make it up to him, hanging up on him, tonight. For now, she returns her attention to her computer screen. 

Or she tries, anyway. He doesn’t call back. That’s something. Carol drags her stylus across her screen in a few hopeful calculations, but none of the algorithms do anything to crack her father’s encryptions. She holds the end of the stylus against her mouth while she thinks, then drops it when that only makes her think of having other things weigh down her bottom lip, much bigger, warmer, slicker things. Of course she’s swallowed him at the office. She’s spent too many lunch breaks tucked under his desk between his legs, marveling at the strength in his thighs and his impressive length, and his strong hands and the skill with which he threads them through her hair. He’s a gorgeous being, a flawless specimen, easily the most handsome man she’s ever seen. So long as she has the time, she doesn’t at all mind worshiping his beautiful body. And yet there are plenty of times she’s had him below her desk, pushing up her skirt and dragging her forward, only to give her that pleasure back, as amazing at his task as he is at everything. Barely a minute later, and she’s regretting her decision: she can’t think like this, now that she’s already had him in her head, he’s so insidious like that, so much more intriguing than anything this bland office could hope to offer, even with all its secrets. What does it really matter what petty thing her father’s up to, when she could be fucking his favourite officer right under his nose? 

A few minutes later, and she concedes it’s useless; this isn’t going to go away unless she takes care of business. But she can do it herself, quickly, and she carefully locks her workstation before she stands up, straightening her skirt, ready to head for the washroom. 

She turns just in time to stop from walking into John, who has the nerve to appear in her doorway, holding out her lidded coffee cup and looking thoroughly delicious from head to foot. He lifts a quizzical eyebrow, probably at her on her feet and ready to leave, and he coolly offers, “Fortunately for you, you left your cup at my apartment.” And he clearly brought it to the office. Her hand lifts of its own accord, fingers wrapping around the stainless steel base; it’s hot to the touch. Full of a single shot Andorian caramel latte, most likely. Her knuckles brush against his as she takes it to set on her desk. 

Then she’s looking up at him again, managing a small, “Thank you,” when really she wants to say _damn you_ and shove him back into the wall. There’s nothing about him that isn’t professional, but he still sets her wild, those broad shoulders towering above her and his light cologne just within reach. Another man might move out of the way, let her pass, and leave. 

But John Harrison studies her eyes, smirks lightly, and she’s so sure he _knows_ exactly what she’s thinking. He reaches out for her chest, slips a single finger under her collar, and tugs her forward by it. Carol cuts off a gasp that could just as easily be a moan: he’s come to _play._

John’s hand is dropped by the time she’s tugged out of her cubicle, but she follows him like she’s leashed to him all the same, barely looking up and down the hall to check that they’re alone. She can hear the sounds of others working, typing and computer noises permeating the office air, but no one’s in sight. He slips his hand so easily into hers, sensual even in the simple way the soft pads of his fingertips ghost down her wrist, his whole hand so much bigger, stronger than hers. A little pull and he’s got her in tow. He walks coolly down the hall, around the corner, Carol silently following. She tries not to look up at the amusement on his face. She tries not to think about what’s coming next, what position they’ll be in and how many clothes they’ll lose and how deep he’ll fill her. By the time they reach the supply closet, Carol’s breathing raggedly and ready to pounce. 

The washroom would be safer. But they won’t make it that far. John turns the handle, opens up and ushers her inside, and she slips in to lean against the shelves, letting them dig into her back. Her fingers clutch at the third lowest one. There’s nothing in his posture that gives him away, but she knows from the tone of his first call that it’s just his usual aloofness. Once the door is closed, he’ll ravage her. 

His fingers lock around the handle. He turns to look at her, eyes burning while he draws the door shut behind them. She mutters, “Computer, half light,” and even in this little closet, it jumps to obey. The door clicks shut behind him.

And he’s on her. And Carol _melts._


End file.
